I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!

Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot Be call’d our mother, but our grave; where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy: the dead man’s knell Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken.

O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!

That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker: Each minute teems a new one.